Singing The Blues
by WookieCookie
Summary: A simple 'Don't go' would be suffice but they were too prideful, stubborn and it was the first push that would bring the rest of dominoes down, one by one. AU


**Warnings: Slash (Obviously), OOC (?), and many, many more**

**Beta: Darkened Dawn of Silence**

* * *

There are no words exchange between you and your husband as you walk side by side. Your fingers almost touch his and you notice the way he cringes at the abrupt contact. The silent is like a contagious ailment and you want it to stop.

"Roxas _please_." Your tone swift and desperate. It sounds weak but you don't care. It gets his attention. "Roxas, what did the neurosurgeon say?"

He stops on his feet and when he doesn't turn around to meet your eyes, your heart drops to the floor. You might not love him and desire his heart. The organized matrimonial was just for business, as your parents detailed. Despite that, you care. You love him like a friend would.

"A month and a half. And then I'm gone." He continues walking, as if the words were never uttered by him in a steady and calm manner. You suddenly hate him for that.

"There have-"

"There are none. Nothing to cure it. _I'm sorry. Too late. Settlements. Arrangements. Incurable_. I wish I could bash his head for saying it so monotonously."

You can trace several void waves in his tone, but you wonder why you can't distinguish fear or regret. Whether he doesn't let it show or he's being himself again. Accepting of everything. Good or bad.

"It'll be alright, in the end."

"Your voice wavers."

And the sad thing is he's right.

**-X**

"You should eat at least." You settle the sustenance serves in silver platter in front of him. He ignores you, as always. His head buries in the book with only pale golden locks protrude into the view.

"I'm enjoying my read. Filling my stomach is the very last thing that comes to mind."

You notice the way he brushes you off for the last few days. He ignores you on certain occasions, knowing he has many disagreements with you and the only way to avoid fights is by not seeing each other too often. This time, however, he ignores you for almost every day. Every hour. Every minute. You feel like a miasma.

"'Sides," he adds with a scornful tone. "You don't cook, _my dear_."

It doesn't pass his lips. But the statement _'Why would you bother to prepare anything for me now'_ is left unsaid. Perhaps for his comfort more than yours. Maybe.

"I'm trying." you retort, because you really do. "I'm trying to make this easy for you. You refuse to get help. You refuse to tell your family about this. About your deteriorating conditions. You won't accept my help. You avoid everything and everyone like a plague. You're being secluded. You care of nothing." it sounds odd and new. You care enough to go against his requests occasionally; you don't care enough to be honest with him before.

You do now and you feel like you're on the right path.

"You care out of pity."

"I care because I want to."

He seems to take your claim into consideration when he nods, albeit reluctantly.

"Than-...thank you then." He turns to look at the book on his lap. Your cheeks lift into a small smile when he removes it and leans forward to indulge himself in your homemade dinner.

"It's too spicy for my taste."

"Well, I appreciate your compliment, _dear_."

That night, he only gives a kiss on your forehead before he wonders off to god knows where.

It's okay. You won't be able to cry and bite your thumb like a helpless child if he stays.

**-X**

Your eyes narrow as you as you read the black-bolded symptoms.

Headaches. Vomiting, especially in the morning and without nausea. Cognitive decline, slower processing speed of the brain. Seizures. Difficult in coordinating movements. Pain. More pain. Pain. Pain. Pain-

And you throw the book to your side. Surprisingly gently. Your eyes harden at your constant surroundings as it slowly lands on the tinted glass bay window and you blink. It's night. Not afternoon anymore. You must have drowned deep in your thoughts for hours.

A knock on the door and your husband's head peers inside. "Sora?"

You huff, rolling your eyes before you fix your noble-fashioned attires. "Whatever it is you think I did, I didn't do it." You blink again. Once, twice and now you're absolutely sure he is laughing at your unintended jest.

It feels good, to hear your husband laugh. And as soon that notion faded into a blank hole, you realize it takes you almost two years after your marriage with him to know you're going to miss his voice when he's truly...gone. How pathetic is that.

"I know that." Another soft laugh. "Kairi is here. She wants to take you out for _girly_ shopping."

You groan in duress. "Just tell her I'm meditating somewhere far in Southeast Asia."

"That won't do."

You have no claim of why but you smile at that. You want to promptly admit _'I'd rather spend more time here with you'_, but the words clog in your throat. It feels so damn heavy and you bite your lower lip.

If he notices your obvious tremor, he ignores it. "Don't tell her anything."

You nod.

You never go to _girly_ shipping like Kairi has intended to. Instead, you take her hands, drag her to the nearest library (having no care when she whines and calls out to you), go to a vacant row and place your forehead on her shoulder.

"I'm scared."

She hums (confused too) but says nothing. You're grateful for that.

**-X**

The first day of the second week, you start the quiet but tense morning with him emptying his contents in the bathroom, arm resting on the porcelain bowl. A faint chuckle vibrates from him after minutes of pain. "My head hurts."

You open your mouth, but he's stubborn enough to beat your tempo.

"I don't want any of those pills."

"It'll reduce the pain."

"It won't keep my alive." he marks. Persistent. As always. All the time. At the wrong moment.

_"It'll reduce the pain."_ you persist. Hard and final. Not forcing, just desperate for a consent you know you'll never have. After all, you're not good at changing people's mind or perspective.

"Please." he hushes. "I can't. Don't do this."

You wonder why. For now, you walk to his side and take the empty area next to him. You hold his fingers in yours. Not to send a telepathy message you'll be there for him, because you definitely will, to the end. It's just to assure him you understand. Even if you don't.

"I'm sorry. I promised you a life with me would be worth it." He turns his eyes to you, waiting, pleading. You want to kiss the sweaty spot between his brows, brush his nose with the back of your hand and whisper sweet endearments.

You don't do any of that.

"You promised me many things. You kept none." And you don't care really.

**-X**

His situation is waning. He's slowly broken from the inside out. His headaches are more frequent and the significant of any other symptoms are showing as well. His string of words makes small sense.

You're at a loss.

"I want to give my farewells."

Your ears slide forward at that. Out of shock maybe. He rarely states his farewell to anyone or anything. He's not the sentimental type.

"To whom?"

"People, I guess..." His mouth opens. Eyes wary. Jaw slacking. Your husband tries to muster anything. He can use his voice, push out his points and create remarks you might hate, but his head is dominated by sudden bareness. He closes his eyes with his hands and you ponder shortly if he's panicking behind the curtain of his fringe and palms.

_Aphasia_, you think. His own life is eating him. You strain hard not to intrude him with your worries.

"Roxas-"

He quickly composes, "Do you want to come?"

Of course. What kind of question is that? You will always come. You need to.

You regain your posture, answering him flatly. "Yes."

His smile grips something in your chest bones and it's a weight you seriously can't shoulder. Why does it take a tumor and shortening days for you to realize what should have come years ago?

"Your farewells to whom?" you ask again.

He huffs this time. "To a lot."

"You still have weeks."

"Seventeen days to be exact."

You glare at him. "Don't count the days."

"I need to _because you won't_."

...Fair enough. Still, if he counts the days, he'll end up calculating and planning the last moments he wants to do. And what if in that list, there's no you? It's a notion you can't bear to withstand. It frightens you.

"We must go; I don't want to miss my _expensive_ seconds."

You chortle. Bitter and fake.

It's wondrous when the last goodbye for the day is for you. He buys a single white rose and remarks _'I spent the rest of my money on desserts'_. You can't contain yourself with the booming mirth. He joins you, hands on your hips as he moves forward to claim your lips with his own. He's saying goodbye. It's only acceptable his kiss feels like one. Like a departure. A goodbye. _I don't want you to go._

He kissed you before. Countless times. But this is the first time he does it out of want, not obligation. You draw away, returning it by giving a small peck on his temple.

He looks sullen at that, not trying to hide it. "After all these years, you still feel nothing."

Perhaps. Maybe. You can't tell. No. You feel something. Just not strong enough to concede it.

"You don't feel the same way either."

"You never know, Sora." He presses his chin on your neck. If you can see his mask, it's probably full with another expression of defeat - like the one he wears for the rest of the day. The evening seems blank now, as it should be. You stay quiet until he lifts his face to take steps away from you.

You don't stop him.

Time passes. Moving. Refuses to stop.

The world is a fucking monster.

**-X**

He stops using his legs one day. It just gives out on him and he has no qualm to care, to try to stand again. Not a little bit. He's a fighter, you think. In his own way. He stays on your shared bed, his fingers locking together. Head turns to watch the flicker of life outside the window. He informs his family. His friends. Only when he only has four days left.

The reaction is obvious. Anger. Disappointment. _Why. Why. Why. Why. Why now?_

His answer is why not.

For nearly whole days, people come. People go. Most don't pass through the entrance. They have no stands to look at him, _too afraid to accept the fact_, they say. You need not to point out that he's still your husband. Still the same man. Just dying. Wilting.

They won't care - too wrapped up in emotional state.

"I'm too tired." he says, after days with active visits are finally over; from more than half of everyone you recognize.

"I know."

"...Sora?"

"Yes?" you ask; still won't admit to yourself that your face is soaking wet with tears. This is not what you want him to see in you. Not what you want to feel. So you brace your chest, chanting _'I'm fine' _over and over. No one believes it.

"Today is the last day."

"I know."

"I still want to see tomorrow." his voice slurs.

"I know." You give him a sideways glance with a hint of doubt. To be honest, you know nothing. You know not what he goes through. What he has to feel from the edge of his fingers to the end of his toes. You know nothing.

You stand from your seat and push yourself to sprawl beside him on the bed. Your body curls, nails digging into the front of his shirt, one of your legs secure around his and you tuck yourself under his chin, basking in his diminishing presence. His breaths draining slower, yet he brings his arms down around you.

"You'll be fine without me."

"You don't know that, Roxas." You use his words against him. "I'll live on but nothing will stay the same. Not anymore."

His expression dulls. His touches slip. Thin, small and you wait with him. He wants to see only you. You before he sleeps. You before he closes his eyes. You before the dark. Not anyone from his family and friends. Just you. The person who gives him the hardest times in his life.

"Roxas."

"Hmm?"

You want to say you harbor more than platonic love to him - that if you are honest and not afraid and coward, you'd kiss him and press how much he truly means to you. You'd tell him you could see many possibilities for the both of you to be more than just husband with benefits. The arranged marriage would never have to happen.

But you steer from what you want to say.

"I'm going to miss you."

"I'll miss you more."

To you, world is still a monster.

Clock is ticking.

Today is the last day.

_"I'll miss you most."_

* * *

**X_X**

**Written by Wookie**


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